


Dichotomies

by antagonists



Category: Tekken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: At best, it would claim his heart. At worst, he is nothing.





	Dichotomies

**Author's Note:**

> tfw [plot continues to thicken for no reason]

* * *

 

 

 

The otherworld falls away as the night to dawn, as sure as winter in the mountains. A glimmering sea of cosmos and directionless light sways behind him. Deep, deep below are glowing rails leading to nowhere and everywhere. Sound fills the space that is not entirely a space, low and dangerous, hungry. At best, it would claim his heart. At worst, he is nothing.

 

The chill disappears as Hwoarang emerges disoriented from an abandoned shrine, cursing when he realizes he needs to be at the shop to open soon. He checks his phone, peering at the symbols lighting up through the cracked screen. There is reception here, unlike when he is trudging through some otherworldly rendition of a train station. The shrine nearby is near falling apart, no more than a few worn stones and rotten wood. A month or two more, and perhaps it will cease its function as a link between the two worlds here.

 

Despite the early hour, it is still thick and humid outside. He feels as though he is wading through water on his way out of the forest.

 

“Master, I fulfilled the request,” he says, grunting as he slides down a slope littered with leaves and debris. He is by the roadside, at least, not too far from a city judging from the road signs. Atypical, really, how he can emerge from the middle of nowhere and still be downtown within ten minutes. “I’m at Gwangju, I think.”

 

“Sloppy. Why are you so far south?” There is the distant noise of ceramic hitting wood—likely that Baek still has not left for work and is enjoying last-minute tea.

 

“I, uh, got lost. I’ll take the train back.”

 

“You’ll still be late, boy.” A sigh. “I’ll take care of the shop until you get here. Catch some sleep on the train, alright?”

 

“Yes, Father,” Hwoarang says. Baek makes some sort of embarrassed noise on the other end, then the line goes dead. He holds the phone to his ear for another moment before dropping his arm, rubbing at his face tiredly. The sun is coming up and he probably looks at least half a mess, so he makes sure to duck into the station restroom as soon as he is able.  It wouldn’t do to draw any attention on the ride back.

 

When he arrives at Yongsan station, Baek is there to pick him up with convenience store kimbap and a thermos of ginseng tea. Hwoarang shoves the food into his mouth and moans around it but turns his nose up at the tea.

 

“Drink,” Baek insists. The blend is homemade, brewed with a mix of specially curated herbs and old root and wards. Hwoarang has pretty damn good immunity to the otherworld, but only to a point—he is human, after all, and miasma is near-impossible to purge if it does not first corrupt the vessel entirely. He sighs pointedly, then chugs all the tea in one go.

 

“Awful,” he croaks after stuffing more kimbap into his mouth, hoping to dissolve the bitter flavor.

 

“It’s good for you,” Baek says in his typical lecturing tone. “And you know adding unnecessary ingredients dilutes its effects.”

 

Hwoarang grumbles but makes no other protest. He _has_ seen what miasma can do humans before.

 

He tends to the bookstore alone now, flipping idly through an old comic when he isn’t half-napping at the counter. Calling the place a bookstore is a bit of a stretch; more accurately it is an old house with an abundance of used or historical texts, most not important enough to be considered substantial by anyone but clueless tourists. Sometimes.

 

The most important stuff is in the back, as it always is.

 

The welcoming bell rings from up front. It has been a very long while since Hwoarang has seen someone other than obvious tourists or typical old folk stepping into the store, so he spares the person a little more than a cursory glance. This potential customer is dark-haired, dark-eyed, dressed in black leather that Hwoarang has only ever seen in dramas. A little bit suspicious, considering the hot weather.

 

The stranger seems not to care at Hwoarang’s lack of greeting and takes to perusing the stock instead. It is a while before he makes his way up to the counter, but by then Hwoarang has long realized why the air is shifting and he feels so antsy. Light flashes from his palm as he flings a purification tag towards the man, though it fizzles out quickly within the stranger’s outstretched fingers. The thin paper flutters faintly, its glowing white bits of ink dimming back to black.

 

“If you aren’t going to buy anything, you can leave,” he says, clicking a pen.

 

“Is that how you normally treat customers?” says the stranger, turning the tag around to peer at its symbols. His voice is surprisingly, deceptively gentle. The disabled purification tag flickers, as if struck by lightning, then disintegrates into ash. Which is just _fine_ ; Hwoarang only took an entire hour to perfect that.

 

 _Click_.

 

“Normal customers don’t stink of _miasma_ ,” Hwoarang scowls. “I’ll provide a salt shower for free, if you want.”

 

“Normal customers do not know the true purposes of your little shop, that might be true.” The stranger picks something out of his pocket, sliding a card across the counter. Hwoarang has to stare at it a little while before he remembers the meaning of those Hanja characters, and a little longer to decipher the English on it. The man speaks before Hwoarang can say anything else, “Kazama Jin. I’m looking for scripts about these, as well as offering a job.”

 

Kazama slides another slip of paper across the counter. Hwoarang sets his pen down to peer more closely at the list. Some of the characters are so outdated he has not seen them anywhere but this place and museum exhibits.

 

“Hidden blood records of the Jin state; talisman creation, uses and records amongst the Samhan; Gojoseon sacrificial rituals, and,” he reads slowly, raising an eyebrow as he progresses. The list is as specialized as they come, but the topic at hand might be more disturbing than most. “The job?”

 

“Nothing too difficult for you, I presume,” Kazama says smoothly. “This place has a reputation, for those who know how to look.”

 

“You’ll have to run the specifics by my boss, or we won’t even consider it.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Hwoarang gives the customer another strange look, eyes the clock, then stands to go retrieve what he can of the requested texts. Most of the materials are arranged by date, so he soon finds himself half-buried within historical texts dating from centuries before AD, close to the tops of precariously stocked shelves. Many of the scrolls and old twine-bound books are very close to if not already falling apart, so he picks through the protective wrappings carefully. He is impatient, yes, but he would rather not be nagged at.

 

With a bundle of related texts under one arm, he shuffles back out of the dry room and locks the door behind him. First with a key, next with a quick spell. His finger is still tingling from it when Kazama gives him a curious glance. If he is anything like the usual humans—or half-humans—who come in here, he will have noticed the small spark from Hwoarang’s hand.

 

“What if I ordered a customized spell?”

 

“Costs extra,” Hwoarang says, laying out his findings tiredly. He does not doubt that this Kazama could afford anything he asks for and more, though. He speaks as though he owns the world. “Anything complex goes to my boss.”

 

“I want _you_ to make it.” There is a hint of challenge in Kazama’s voice, and he knows from the gleam in those dark eyes that his barely-checked reaction has not gone unnoticed. “People in this job are experienced with many aspects of spiritual, region-specific lore and rites notwithstanding.”

 

“Nah,” Hwoarang sniffs, and notes the way Kazama’s fingers graze over faded ink. It still reeks of the otherworld. “Magic isn’t really my deal, y’know.”

 

Kazama raises one eyebrow, speaking slowly. “You are an apprentice shaman.”

 

“And you can get lost if you aren’t buying anything.”

 

Hwoarang has picked up the pen again, fiddling with the clip and thinking that this customer is awfully nosy. By no means is it the first strange customer, but those who come in have a tendency to ramble about things without making any real sense. Some probably a bit _too_ far gone, some still one footstep in a place they will not be able to return to.

 

As Kazama continues to leaf through the parchments, Hwoarang glances at the clock and frowns to himself. The minute hand has not moved since he had checked a while ago. Unsettled, he gives the other man a hard look, but is unable to find anything but a human appearance. Either Kazama really is just an ordinary human, or he is using some higher level of cloaking Hwoarang is not trained for.

 

After a few more moments of shuffling through the texts, Kazama slides a stack of ten-thousands across the counter. They are all fresh bills, Hwoarang notes wistfully, wondering not for the first time what it must feel like to be filthy rich. He picks through them anyways, since he isn’t a stranger to big payments.

 

“The request,” Kazama tilts his head, hair shifting out of his eyes. “Of course, you will be compensated fairly. I need help sealing a gate.” And when Hwoarang yanks open a drawer to display an assortment of mild to moderate sealing charms, Kazama smiles mildly.

 

“No,” he says, tapping the counter as his grin sharpens. The drawer shuts seemingly of its own volition. “The gate of a god, if you would.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You understand that bigger cities tend to attract more of the spiritual and otherworld debris. Simply from how the proximities make the populace prone to malevolent influences,” Baek says, reading over the list of their finished tasks and tasks-to-do. “Which is why, of course, we are situated in the hub of our country.”

 

“Yes dad,” says Hwoarang, because he has heard this lecture more times than he has been drunk.

 

And Baek continues undeterred, since he is not quite listening either. “Seoul certainly isn’t as heavily influenced as it was in the past, but it still stands that the human world is under constant threat without vigilance.”

 

“Yes, dad.”

 

“Korea and Japan have highly entwined history, though most of our records were burned down during the occupation and previous wars, and we have evidence to believe there were some inhuman influences. They effectively eliminated our means of cultivating our history as they have been able to. Which brings me to the point of spiritual activity overseas—Hwoarang, are you listening?”

 

“Yes,” lies Hwoarang.

 

He gets a swat to the head for this. His mentor gives a long-suffering sigh, setting down the bowl of potash he had been steadily grinding.

  
“Did you notice anything strange about the client?”

 

“Stunk.”

 

“ _Hwoarang_.”

 

“Of miasma,” Hwoarang supplies. “I dunno. Filthy rich?” He sits up straight as he tries to recollect exact details of the encounter. “I think time stopped for a bit, when I was going to get the texts he requested. And he shut a drawer on my finger.”

 

“And you said he wanted us to close a gate?” Baek asks. “Curious indeed, if he had some mote of control over the flow of time.”

 

“He vaporized my charm,” Hwoarang says. “You know those less-than-pleasant clients we deal with sometimes? Is he…?”

 

Baek picks up the bowl of potash again, though he makes no move to resume grinding. He hums and snaps his fingers over the fine sand, dropping a spark that blooms into violet flame. Hwoarang pauses to stare at the fire for a bit. His master only goes quiet mid-conversation if he is trying to piece together cabalistic knowledge for difficult problems. The flame does not flicker despite the severe draft in the room, responsive only to the changes of metaphysical planes. His master holds the flame up to the east, then turns counterclockwise to mimic the path of the sun.

 

Hwaorang does not get it, but at least Baek seems to have some sort of revelation.

 

“A good number of our customers with faint traces of miasma are those who have lost a core element during their studies,” Baek murmurs quietly. “Others are those like us, who have been trained as guardians. If, as you say, this man had utter control over himself, we may be involving ourselves in affairs of the otherworld.”

 

“We don’t _have_ to accept the request.”

 

“It will be a good learning experience for you,” Baek says with a tone of finality, and closes his fist around the fire. “Perhaps it will help you build some character.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Their first business meeting occurs in a high-rise, moody restaurant at the heart of Busan. Hwoarang feels out of place even with the suit Baek had almost forcibly dressed him in. He mimics what Kazama does, doing his best to exude some sort of disinterested, accustomed demeanor though his insides are tense with caution. Expensive, isolated places like these are breeding dens for demons, as are their underground opposites.

 

The menus don’t even have _prices_ on them. Hwaorang tries not to think about it, and first sniffs the wine to check for poison.

 

“Relax; the clients here are well-behaved, and the food will not kill you,” Kazama chuckles, eyes still on the menu. “Any incidents are reported to me.”

 

Hwoarang tries to relax, feeling chastised, then sits up again once the meaning of those words finally works through his head. “To you,” he repeats, and Kazama glances up to nod, amused at the obvious discomfort on Hwoarang’s face. He sips at the wine in a vague attempt to take his mind off of where he is, though it does little to help. The deep red-purple looks like blood in the romantic lighting, marking a strange dichotomy between look and flavor. It is, quite regrettably, the best-tasting alcohol he has ever had.

 

For the most part he does not make a fool of himself, sticking to the old lessons of propriety and manners Baek had spent years on. His eyes are constantly drawn to the neon lights outside, the drip of colored reflections from across the bay’s dark waters, and the moonlight. On multiple occasions he feels the tug of the otherworld from across the room. He believes it to be unintentional and just a result of there being non-humans in the restaurant—still, it certainly does not help his nerves.

 

When Kazama’s foot knocks against his own, it takes every bit of control he has to prevent himself from jumping out of his seat. His knife had been taken at the entrance and he feels the emptiness of his pocket more than ever.

 

“You seem troubled,” Kazama smiles, having cleared his plate without any difficulties. Anywhere else, it would look like he is baring his teeth. “Is the food not to your liking?” He moves to call for a waiter, and Hwoarang nearly lunges across the table to keep Kazama’s arm from raising any further.

 

“I don’t see the point in a fancy dinner if we are to talk business,” he says after settling back into his chair. His palm burns as though he had summoned a large fire. He takes comfort in the surprise that had flitted across Kazama’s face.

 

“I am putting you through the trouble of helping me. It is the least I can do to treat you,” Kazama says. He takes a thin object from his breast pocket and places it on the table, then leans forward, chin propped on his hands. “What information I have is compiled onto this drive. Unfortunately, the contents are too lacking to move onto my end goal.”

 

Hwaorang reaches out and pockets the bit of metal, fingers still burning. Kazama’s eyes are fiery with intent. “You mentioned sealing the gate of a god. I assume you’ve at the very least located the vessel?”

 

“I don’t believe the vessel is an issue for the moment,” Kazama says. “He had a very public presence up until late anyways. Current head of G Corporation; have you heard of him?”

 

“No,” Hwoarang admits, feeling very out of his depth.

 

“Mishima Kazuya,” Kazama moves on naturally, and it is only because Hwoarang glances at the reflections in the window that he realizes the room has long since emptied of other clients. Suddenly Kazama’s eyes are darker, his presence all-encompassing and smothering. It is the sensation of breathing in smoke and storm water. “Son of Mishima Heihachi. Years ago we believed him dead although it turned out to be untrue. This time, however, I believe he is biding his time in the otherworld. We have records of an unusual fight a few weeks ago. Mishima Heihachi is dead.”

 

“At the hands of your so-called god,” Hwoarang says.

 

“A so-called god.”

 

“So it’s safe to assume he’ll wreak all havoc on the human world after all his otherworld nonsense?”

 

“He will,” Kazama says with the conviction of someone digging their own grave. He nods to Hwoarang’s pocket, tone suddenly dismissive. He stares out the window, as cold and distant as another world, sounding as though he is speaking to someone else. “The information should lead you to one of the keys we will need. If we need meet on the other side, I hope it is not unpleasant.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hwoarang presents the flash drive to Baek the next afternoon after a late night of being flown— _flown!—_ back to the capital, a late morning, and then a few quality hours with a punching bag. He had not properly bound his hands, and so Baek gives the bruises a needly look.

 

“The meeting went well, then,” he says, more of a question than a statement. “If you were stressed enough to bleed your hands out this morning, then your self-control last night must have been impressive.”

 

“I never want to dine in an expensive restaurant ever again,” Hwoarang says. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he glances around like he is being watched. “He owned the place.”

 

“Well, he needs a decent foundation here if he is to request the help of the locals. Our client is quite well-known in Japan, and is making a name for himself here as well. You are aware he is the heir to the Mishima Zaibatsu, yes?”

 

“No?” says Hwoarang, not having looked at any of the drive’s contents.

 

“Clearly he knows that your talents lie in areas other than intel and common sense,” Baek shakes his head. “Come, let us go over the information together. We need to head out to one of our contacts at a boundary as well.”

 

Their ride through inner loop Line 2 is boring enough that Hwoarang dozes through most of it. Taking the long route is not always necessary, but Baek likes to be careful when they’re meeting with outside contacts. In many cases, they can only be reached with a very specific and long-winded combination of riding one line to a stop, going back a few stations, and repeating the process to a T. Through some manner of unlocking wards and navigation Hwoarang understands but cannot explain, individuals can reach another dimension isolated from the mortal plane. Most of the more _useful_ contacts aren’t really human anyways, and thus cannot exist among human society.

 

The transfer to Line 8 is uneventful. Once they exit the train for another move, however, Baek’s gaze sharpens. Hwoarang knows what is happening before Baek says anything.

 

“Appearance,” Hwoarang queries, nearly inaudible.

 

“Incorporeal for the most part,” Baek smiles broadly as he turns to Hwoarang, faking a different conversation. He hands over what seems like a small, wrapped gift. Within it is a charm they only use for emergencies. The more frequent the use, the weaker the spell grows. “You should go on first. I almost forgot the old books I have to return to Yujae. Tell her I might be a bit late, alright?”

 

“Be quick or I’ll eat your portion of dinner,” Hwoarang calls to Baek’s retreating figure. The sense of dread fades the further Baek walks, and Hwoarang swallows the worry for fear of being too obvious.

 

He takes the rest of the line to Daehwa, gripping the talisman meant for disguise. The place isn’t necessarily the middle of nowhere but right now, he exists in a plane between the human realm and the one that the master here controls.

 

Nothing exists as it quite should. Some of the buildings have an odd tilt, the streets are a brittle consistency other than asphalt, almost like sand. The people walking down the streets are not always real people. It is almost as though some toddler had cut up a photograph and tried taping it back together. There is just enough strangeness that makes the place seem everything but normal.

 

Uj greets him at the top of the steps. They are a dark, tall wisp of a humanoid when in a good mood, and a yawning chasm of terror when not. He descends the dusty staircase into a space that seems like a normal basement home at first glance. In the corner they are brewing some ill manner of brew; he has grown used to the smell, unfortunately, and to the sight of bones and gems that glisten like fresh blood. Although there is no breeze down here, the jade wind chimes clink and sway back and forth, back and forth.

 

“He’ll be late,” he says, sagging into one of the couches and jabbing the flash drive into the air when they wiggle their fingers. “Got followed to Garak Market.”

 

“Either you have grown careless, or someone very important does not want you finding what you are meant to find.”

 

“Probably the second. We’re supposed to seal the gate of a god.”

 

Uj pauses, the tea tray in their hands uncomfortably still. They set the tea down and stare at Hwoarang with very dark, very unsettling eyes. Their depths are as endless as the stars.

 

“Then I know what you’ve come for,” they say resignedly, taking the object from Hwoarang’s hand. “There has been an upsurge in unreasonable activity past the boundaries. Many, many dead ones, many graves. Someone is methodically turning over even the most ancient in their search for… something.”

 

The walls flicker bright blue, filled with languages that no longer exist in the modern-day world. Uj inserts the drive into a small port and boots up another holographic screen. Hwoarang realizes a bit belatedly that letting them take all the information has forgone any chance of him controlling the situation. They are technically a contract dealer, with severe repercussions on either side, but he trusts otherworld entities as much as he enjoys drinking Baek’s ginseng concoction.

 

Within the first file are specs for the supposed god’s vessel. Mishima Kazuya, age 49, looking every bit the angrily handsome business antagonist from some low-budget drama Hwoarang binge-watched once, and does not remember the title of. (He was drunk).

 

Still, Mishima Kazuya looks remarkably familiar, and Hwoarang doesn’t know why.

 

On a surface level, fishy business and manufacturing is common and only marginally worrying. What concerns Hwoarang is the underlay of otherworld involvement. Or at least its overarching presence. He tries to recount the past few exterminations he has done, only remembering the distinctly foul nature of the spirits. Nothing particularly special about them aside from the degree of hostility and advanced stage of corruption through their half-worldly vessels.

 

With modern society and its obsession with hedonistic thrills and journeys, the boundaries are decaying almost as quickly as they would during wartime. If there is some sort of catalyst they can destroy, anything to slow the process, then the upkeep of those boundaries would be _feasible_.

 

One of Baek’s old friends had been a boundary seer. Just a month back, his physical body had caved, unable to withhold the pressure from the miasma and constant shuttling to and fro between worlds. They are trained, yes; emotionally and mentally prepared, yes. In all senses but the physical they are as exhaustless as the spiritual sea. But their bodies are not immortal. And humans, whether it be due to the gods deciding they would grow too strong left unchecked or otherwise, are keenly dependent on good health in all aspects.

 

“Do you know what you are getting yourself into?” Uj asks him.

 

“No,” Hwoarang says. “But thanks for asking.”

 

“You will have to find his mortal bonds before he does,” Uj says when they realize Hwoarang has no intentions of backing down. “Destroying them will merely sever his connection to the mortal plane, so the sealing process is more than just sealing the metaphorical gate. Any powerful, meaningful sort of tether should have some sort of tangible form.”

 

“Well, he’s been digging around in the heart of the otherworld, right?” Hwoarang sniffs at the tea, makes a face and sets it back down. “How dangerous is it?”

 

“A warzone,” Uj says simply, moving towards the door when they hear a steady knocking. Hwoarang glances at the talisman in his hands; the ink glows now that Baek is close. “A far cry from the surface edges you have been exploring. There, your mortal flesh would not survive.”

 

Baek enters looking harried and distracted. He does not chastise Hwoarang for clearly not having held the upper hand to the fair information trade as he is _supposed_ to have done, which means that there is definitely something on his mind. Hwoarang keeps quiet for the most part as the other two negotiate, watching Uj’s fingers trace unknowable symbols into the air.

 

Plenty of records show that shamans of both new and old have been able to weather the hellfire of the otherworld, though the records of _how_ do not exist as much more than ash at this point. Those had all been burned away during the twentieth century occupation—since otherwise, their rule in the otherworld would be compromised.

 

Uj does not speak of it, but Hwoarang gets the idea it is because they do not know either.

 

Late that night he falls asleep on his map of dwindling and newly birthed gates. The red ink of one marked in Gwangju flares bright as a dying star, soon joining the scores of charred spots on the rice paper. Far to the south, nearly in the empty expanse of sea, another one blooms. It is shaped strangely like fire.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It takes several excursions to border realms, creeping dangerously on the precipice of _too close_ to hellscape and _too far_ from his home before Hwoarang can gather a good amount of information. He doesn’t have the shrewd charm that Baek does, and being subtle is not something he is well-practiced in either. Making deals is not one of his fortes, and Baek teases him about it whenever he returns exhausted from trying not to threaten the other party into some form of agreement.

 

He has estimates on the locations for the so-called key items Kazama had mentioned; all the rest is field work. The issue at hand is being able to dive in that deep without losing his damn mind.

 

“Could you not have found all this information on your own,” Hwoarang asks when Kazama summons him. To the airport, of all places. He had been given one hour to pack his essentials, and he stares bitterly out the nearest window of the private jet en route to Tokyo. “I would think someone of your status has much more access to working hands and information than we do.”

 

“Perhaps so,” Kazama admits, though he seems distracted. He looks over at Hwoarang thoughtfully, cutting as impressive and intimidating a figure as he had upon first impression. “Certain criteria must be met, however. You aren’t from the mainland, are you?”

 

Hwoarang tenses. He can count on one hand the number of people who know of his island origins. The dialect of his past, thick enough to be considered an entirely different language, has long since adjusted to mainlander lexicon. “What does that have to do with anything.”

 

Satisfied at the lack of denial, Kazama smiles thinly. “You have findings, yes? What do they tell you?”

 

“One of your, uh, keys,” Hwoarang gestures at nothing, stares intently at the empty sky and seas below them. Suddenly he hears a low chanting—prayers of island peoples, the prayers for the storm. Ghosts of his imagination. “Location-wise, it might be on a smaller southern island if we’re lucky. Buried in the middle of the sea if we’re unlucky.”

 

“Those are not considered the heartlands of the otherworld,” Kazama says. “But their isolation makes them no less dangerous. Mortals cannot enter these spaces freely—not alone. Not if they want to return intact.”

 

Hwoarang peels his gaze away from the window, glaring at Kazama, who now makes no effort to conceal the distinctly inhuman brilliance of his eyes.

 

“Ages past, my people were the guardians of these gates,” Kazama says, his voice a deep, seductive rumble. The shadows around his eyes are darker, sharper. “We were of the sun, yes, a beacon even in the darkest reaches and our own shadows. But we were without purpose, wandering from shore to shore. It was to the west we found our guides: a people who carved through hell and heaven, who discovered passages through worlds and time.”

 

“So you want me to be your guide,” Hwoarang says, a bit belatedly. He realizes that he will never develop an appreciation for flowery language.

 

“I am at your mercy,” Kazama agrees.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hwoarang lays out the rest of his findings in a posh conference room that seems just bare meters from the top of the world. He tries not to pay attention to Kazama’s assistant, who seems like she could suplex him to hell and back even with all that skintight leather and skyscraper heels.  

 

His researching did not lead him not to the heartlands of the otherworld, as Uj had believed it would. Instead he now marks the deepest, outermost reaches, where even the strongest of spirits would collapse upon themselves. The Roots, Kazama calls them, where everything had begun, where everything returns. To the winterly norths, where the Ainu had flourished. To the stormy souths, where the Ryukyuan divined the rains.

 

Their first objective is in the northern reaches of Hokkaido. They travel to the coastal town of Oumu, which lies wrapped in fog and moonlight at nighttime. Hwoarang finds it a little chilly and wonders how much of a wasteland this place looks during the winter. The seas are an unwelcoming grey in the distance, lapsing into the dull sky. From atop the small mountains, everything looks so small.

 

It is easy finding a remote location, though the older shrines are too similar to piles of rocks scattered around. Hwoarang has to double check his map, then closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind. Something trembles to the south.

 

“Over here,” Kazama says, palm pressed into a flat stone on the ground. “It isn’t a shrine, but a grave will do the job.”

 

The ground shudders beneath their feet, and the stone tumbles down the gaping fissure that opens up right beneath Kazama’s hand. It is oddly humanoid-shaped, as though someone had fallen from the skies.

 

“What the _hell_ ,” says Hwoarang; he has never known anyone who could force a closed gate back open. “That’s not… too bad, Kazama.”

 

“You first, Hwoarang,” Kazama smiles, all teeth.

 

As much as he would rather not simply jump down into a void with no idea where it ends, Hwoarang _also_ does not like backing down from a challenge. He takes out a talisman of light, ignites it, and glares at Kazama for a good few seconds before jumping into the blackness. If he is falling, it does not seem like it. Debris and spots of gloom float past him. He looks up to see if the gate is still open but sees no sign of it.

 

Violet flickers brightly in his palm, pulling him back from his thoughts. Kazama is behind him. He takes a step forward and is relieved to feel some semblance of a ground. The air is different from the distant shores Hwoarang has crossed, time and time again; it is heavier, hungrier, rampant with some sort of unsatisfiable desire. He shudders against the initial crush of miasma around his body, finds himself winded upon dispelling it. Jin is staring at him wordlessly, unreadable.

 

“Piss off,” Hwoarang grunts, rubbing at his wrist out of habit. Flesh talismans are meant to last a lifetime, but his had been burned away. The scar itches whenever he is especially bothered by the otherworld. “Not everyone can be immune.”

 

“It’s Jin,” Kazama says quietly. When he stands straight, the miasma that had curled around Hwoarang’s wrists shies away as though burned. “Lesser men would have succumbed even before stepping in. The fact you still stand tells me enough.”

 

As they step further into the otherworld, Hwoarang notices the shift in how Jin moves. The smooth, economy of his movement on the surface seems a pale comparison to how he flows through the space here. He is the sea of darkness itself, whispering and whispering as endlessly as the hollow universe. The space here is less dreamy than the surface realms Hwoarang has walked, fitting more to the descriptions of entirely formless and desolate. Even with the talisman of light, it luminates only the space between them; Hwoarang relies on his divining bracelet, obeying the directional tug in his palm as he progresses.

 

Despite how devoid of anything this part of the otherworld is, Hwoarang still half-expects something to appear from nowhere and attack him. Unsuspecting humans who have accidentally wandered too far past their world are easy prey for hungry spirits, and not everyone has innate abilities to ward themselves.

 

The beads shudder violently in his hand when he reaches a certain point. His sense of direction has long since disappeared; he feels as though he has simply been walking in circles with no waypoints to go by. If anything, his wild imagination says, this could be some elaborate ploy for Jin to feast upon him—for the stronger the fire, the more there is to consume. The stronger the demon, the greater the hunger.

 

“Here,” he says, stopping at a strange spire. The tip is darker, fading into lighter stone further down. Jin kneels, hand brushing over a spot on the ground. For a moment Hwoarang thinks there must have been some mistake until he squints to see the faint outline of occult markings. The crude shapes of the spells suggest great age, and upon further inspection Hwoarang realizes that they are drawn with blood. “I’m not seeing any sort of key.”

 

“This is a grave,” Jin says, enraptured by the markings. He sweeps his hand across them again, revealing more of the circular spell that winds perpetually outwards. It marks both a grave and a birthplace.

 

“You can activate the spell with blood,” Hwoarang says slowly, recognizing some of the symbols, and before he can say anything else the ground pulses violently. Jin already has his hand gored onto the spire, very calmly watching as his dark blood trickles down the stone. Hwoarang makes a face, unsure how else to react. The blood traces the curves and harsh lines of the spell, spreading slowly until it at last reaches the end of the markings. Hwoarang, in an effort to keep from stepping on anything, has backed up a significant amount. He tries not to distance himself overly much, however, since one step too far has him reeling with nausea.

 

A roar echoes around them, a bone-shattering, ancient cry.

 

 _YOU WOULD KILL YOUR OWN FATHER,_ a voice rasps from the ground. A tiger rises from the darkened marks, made of ash. It stalks forward a few paces before morphing into an elegant woman. Blue crystals form a ring around her long neck, the sharp ends pointed inwards like a death sentence. _YOU COME HERE AND TELL ME TO KILL MY OWN SON?_

 

Hwoarang stares at Jin, realizing what the words entail and confirming his own suspicions, but Jin resolutely does not look at him.

 

 _MY POOR, POOR KAZUYA,_ she whispers.

 

“He is no longer my father,” Jin says, reaching towards the crystal choker. The vision makes some sort of noise like a sob, a hole appearing where a mouth should be, “and he is no longer your son.” He grips the blue crystal tightly and yanks it from its owner. The ash, having lost its voice and its magic, simply withers away. With an effort, Jin removes his hand from the bloodied spire and darkness rushes into the wound. Hwoarang blinks, and the skin is mended.

 

He is handed the ring of crystal to seal, almost drops it from how unbearably hot it feels. A storm of magma rests within, crooning soft words to be let out. He feels his face flush from how dangerously it begs him so, and hurriedly moves to form the eight seals. Only when he has set the last one in place does Jin take the object once more. In his exhausted state, Hwoarang thinks that it now looks more of an awkwardly wrapped donut than a lethal tether.

 

“Good work,” Jin says softly. The wound on his hand is healed, but the blood is still there.

 

The journey back up to the surface is quiet, for the most part. The night has not moved. The moon still gazes down from her lonely perch in the sky. When Hwoarang falls asleep in sheets finer than he has ever imagined, a white-eyed demon visits his dreams—smiles and leans in to steal his breath.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hwoarang much prefers the island heat and humidity to the bleak reaches of the north. He does not remember much, if anything, of his childhood spent by the seas and the stars, but everything still feels familiar. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up to the blinding sun, reveling in the warmth of day.

 

There is a shrine by the beach, hidden by sharp rocks and slippery moss. Jin seems to know the path suspiciously well. The offering plates left to the side suggest that there are still people living here who visit this place, though that could be Hwoarang overthinking. The plates have been picked clean, and shine like polished bone. He looks away, away from the sun and to the deep blue of the sea.

 

Where the grave in Ouma had a mysterious air of emptiness and frost, of isolation far up in the mountains and close to the heavens, Hwoarang feels as though he is sinking deep into warm, safe waters as he descends. It feels comforting and inviting, an evil he knows will eagerly swarm him should he let his guard down the slightest. The temptation is great, and the infinite is persistent.

 

The place Hwoarang stops at is a small indent in the ground, pooled with a watery substance that glimmers like starlight. Within it is a wispy white frond, swaying side to side although there is no wind, and the water is stiller than glass. Carefully, Jin kneels to touch the curious plant.

 

Something whispers his name.

 

Hwoarang shrugs when Jin gives him a startled look, tensing when the same voice whispers again. Where the white plant had once been is an ebony hand, reaching out to grip Jin’s wrist. Hwoarang hears the distinct crack of bone, and Jin makes a small, pained noise. Despite his control and all his power, he cannot free himself from the hand pulling him into the pool of water that does not ripple, that reflects an empty night sky.

 

“You _idiot_ ,” Hwoarang swears, and throws the most potent charm he has on him.

 

 _YOU WOULD SPITE YOUR MOTHER,_ the water shrieks. The hand flails, fingers burned away and black peeled off to reveal a galaxy within. _YOUR MOTHER?_

 

“My mother is _dead_ ,” Jin coughs, and the darkness pierces his heart before at last falling away.

 

 _—I AM YOUR MOTHER_.

 

“You made this a hell of a lot more complicated than it needed to be,” Hwoarang says, rushing closer. Anger here feels like knives in his skin, carving and peeling away all to expose him at his most vulnerable.  

 

“I didn’t know,” Jin says quietly, looking uncharacteristically confused. The usual cool demeanor is lost in the desperation in his eyes. Normally the darkness kneels before him. Now, it is a perpetual, all-devouring roar, towering and towering. In the space of Jin’s heart lays an uninviting, gaping rift. Hwoarang grits his teeth, plants one hand over Jin’s bared collar to hold him down, then sinks his other hand into the black hunger.

 

And in his bones, there is _THUNDER_ , _THUNDER_. _MIGHT AND RUIN_. _FIRE_ within and _NOTHING_ without.

 

He bites back the taste of ozone and blood, ignores the intermittent flashing of Jin’s pained, stormy eyes—ignores the gleam of his teeth and the shine of his throat. There is an inferno at his fingertips, searing through skin and all below and over, through every spirit he has felled and every bit of glass he has poured out alone. An inferno within the cage of Jin’s chest, with eager claws and greedier maws.

 

Hwoarang flinches back at the laughter and quieter invitations. His fingers meet something colder than winter, but it feels no less ruthless than the fiery storm surrounding it. He curls his fingers and tugs. Like a bound scroll being pulled loose, the coldness follows him, and he comes to with one cheek against Jin’s torso and one hand clutched around an eye of the Unknown. Blood seeps from the hole in Jin’s chest, drawing a red line down Hwoarang’s face.

 

He sits up to inspect the eye more closely, but Jin’s hand is suddenly around his wrist.  
  
“Don’t look into it,” he heaves, his pupils the barest pinpoints amidst a sea of white. His eyes look like twin moons; he does not appear to _see_ anything.

 

“Fine,” Hwoarang says, and pointedly keeps his gaze directed away from the curious thing in his hand. “What am I supposed to do, seal it with my eyes closed?”

 

“Yes,” says Jin, still breathless.

 

“Let go of my arm, then.”

 

Jin does so, albeit with a fair bit of effort. He digs his fingers into the barren ground of Nowhere as Hwoarang mutters his spells and draws what he can only hope are sufficiently accurate trigrams. It takes a few tries of getting the paper and ink to work with him, Jin’s weary breathing loud in his ears, before the familiar flicker of an activated portion lights up the darkness behind his eyelids. Blue, for north. He turns the incomplete seal counterclockwise. Water to earth. Earth to wind. Jin trembles with the completion of one seal, nails scratching deeper.

 

“Seven more,” Hwoarang murmurs.

 

He is sweating by the time he gets to the eighth. Or he thinks he is. Hwoarang forces himself to keep his eyes shut, though it really feels that he could open them and tell no difference. All sense of direction has left him, and Hwoarang thinks he might be floating although he has not moved, might be light years away.  Jin has gone quiet; the only hint to his presence being the eerie chill at Hwoarang’s side.

 

When the last seal flashes brightly, Hwoarang keeps his eyes closed just in case.

 

“Hey, I’m done,” he says. There is no reply. “Did you fall asleep on me?”

 

He opens his eyes, unable to see for what seems like a good minute or so. In the dark, two glowing eyes are fixed on him. It takes a while for Hwoarang to realize that Jin has likely been staring at him ever since the eighth seal had been finished. He looks down at the sphere in his hands, eye of the Unknown wrapped crudely but firmly within paper and spell. The trigrams glimmer faintly, as though beckoning him to undo the seals.

 

“I’ll take that,” Jin says, voice back to its usual smooth detachedness. He peers curiously at the eye before shaking his head, then wrapping it in worn cloth. The pool of nothingness has dissipated into thin air.

 

“You’re okay, then,” says Hwoarang.

 

“More or less.” Jin stands slowly, starts walking in a direction Hwoarang assumes will lead them to an exit, and it is as though he had not been a writhing, agonized mess on the ground just minutes before. The shadows part as they always do, and those that reach for Hwoarang disintegrate from the poison of Jin’s presence.

 

Warm rain greets them when they emerge, but Hwoarang cannot stop shivering.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Baek is there to greet him at Incheon airport, pacing a length at the entrance before he sees Hwoarang step into the clear. He slows his jog when he notices Jin, immediately wary though his words are still cordial.

 

“Welcome home,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” Hwoarang says. _Welcome home_. “I don’t know why he’s still here.”

 

“You finished your end of the deal,” Jin says. “I am simply here to give you the payment I promised, and deal with some unfinished work in the south.” He hands Baek a heavy briefcase; they do not check it right there and then, but Hwoarang is willing to chase the demon all the way to his lair to retrieve his rightful due if he needs to. Jin turns to Hwoarang, “I’ll visit you after I conclude my business.”

 

 _Don’t,_ Hwoarang wants to say, but what comes out instead is: “Sure, whatever. Buy me a drink next time.”

 

The curl of Jin’s lips is slow, seductive, though Jin does not try anything with so many people around. They both watch as Jin leaves, Baek’s gaze is less sidelong and more cautious.

 

“I trust you know what you’re doing.”

 

“I don’t,” Hwoarang says miserably as Baek shoves a thermos of tea in his direction, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

 

Long after Jin has left, Hwoarang can still feel the cold-burn of the mark on his neck, a quiet promise of _more_.

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> what makes for better fic than tons of unexplained historical references, right?
> 
> \- devil kazumi's markings reminded me of some outfits of the [Ainu people](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ainu_people), and yakushima is far south enough that [Ryukuan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryukyuan_people) heritage doesnt seem completely impossible on jin's end  
> \- hwoarang is still written as an islander boy from jeju, brought to the mainland  
> \- [jin state/samhan confederacy/gojoseon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Korea#Gojoseon_and_Jin_State) are ancient korean kingdoms that were present during japan's [jomon era](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C5%8Dmon_period), which is when people from the korean peninsula began migrating/trading overseas, though their influences are more prominent during the yayoi period (and lots of historical records suggest these kingdoms were highly linked to jomon people's technological advancement)


End file.
